


Glimpses: A Collection of Ficlets

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, Overdosing, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a collection of the ficlets I post on my blog (pixchuu221b.tumblr.com). I'll be adding the completed ficlets as it occurs to me to do so.</p><p>Some are smutty, some are angsty, some are painful, some have major character deaths - I will post a brief warning at the beginning of each ficlet to give you an idea of what you'll be encountering in that particular story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Established Sherlock/John relationship. Smut warning.

Thunder woke Sherlock, the sound muted from his position cocooned within the duvet and with his head beneath his pillow. For a moment, he lay still and silent, letting himself come fully awake, but it was stuffy and uncomfortably warm beneath the pillow so within a few seconds he was wriggling to untangle himself from the bedsheets and get his head out into cooler air.

It was still completely black in the bedroom and he fumbled for the bedside table to find his mobile, thumbing the power on to check the time: 4:15am. That explained the darkness; the sun wouldn’t even begin to crest the horizon for two and a half more hours.

 Carefully, he wiggled across the bed until he encountered the warm bulk of John, still sleeping soundly despite a second rumble of thunder from the storm outside. Sherlock moved with gentle caution to press himself along the line of John’s body. John was sleeping on his back, his head turned away from Sherlock, and Sherlock nuzzled his nose in close to the back of John’s head to breathe in the familiar scent of his hair.

 Thunder murmured outside the window again, the sound fading away quickly as the worst of the storm moved on, but John did not stir. He was deeply asleep, and for a moment Sherlock felt cheated of John’s attention; _he_ was awake and John should be awake to appreciate him, especially since today was a clinic day and John would be gone from 8am until just after 5pm. But the feeling of jealousy faded quickly as Sherlock took another deep lungful of the scent of John’s hair and skin and reminded himself that 4:15am was _not_ a time John appreciated being awakened.

Two months in to their new relationship and Sherlock was still learning what was and wasn’t appreciated in their new dynamic. While John _did_ enjoy their time together, he also was fond of getting a full night’s sleep. At least, that was what he’d told Sherlock the last time Sherlock had woken him before 5am.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes; he would not be able to go back to sleep again, but he could take advantage of the next 45 minutes to think through all the experiments he had running at the moment and plan what he would need to tweak on them throughout the day to ensure a favorable outcome. There were no cases at the moment to focus on, but he had scrapings from the bottom of a potential murderer’s foot to examine through the microscope later, and they should be done marinating in their saline bath by lunchtime.

For 45 minutes, the bedroom was silent except for the sound of the two men breathing softly and the pattering of the rain against the windows. At exactly 5am, though, Sherlock’s eyes opened and he shifted, sliding slowly down underneath the blankets. Time to wake John.

Sex was even newer to them than their status as a couple. They’d had a lot of false starts in the first few weeks as they felt their way around one another, Sherlock unsure of what to do and John too cautiously patient to just _tell_ him. They’d worked through that the week before when Sherlock had walked in on John early one morning having a wank in their bed. John insisted it was not the norm to be jealous of any orgasms John had that weren’t a direct result of Sherlock’s ministrations, but Sherlock didn’t think so.

Since then, Sherlock had been researching everything he could on different sexual techniques and John had been walking around with a blissed out expression.

Research into blowjobs the night before had let Sherlock to _morning_ blowjobs. He didn’t really see the difference in a blowjob first thing in the morning versus one later on in the day, but he was willing to try out every variation; John’s nearly permanent half-smile the last week had made Sherlock feel unusually pleased each time he saw it.

John was still deeply asleep, his cock soft inside his pants. Being incredibly gentle, Sherlock began to slide John’s pants down to his thighs. John snuffled softly at one point and Sherlock froze beneath the blankets, hands resting against the sides of John’s hips as he waited for any change in John’s position that would indicate he was waking. After a moment, though, John’s breathing evened out again.

Reassured that John was fully back to sleep, Sherlock slid the pants the rest of the way to John’s thighs, leaning his head down to catch John’s soft cock in his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. He’d never before sucked John when he was soft and the feel of John in his mouth was completely different, all softness and pliability.

Within seconds, though, that began to change. Blood was rushing from the rest of John’s body as Sherlock stimulated John’s cock with his tongue and lips. Within a minute or two, John had grown harder and long enough that Sherlock was able to wrap one hand around the base of John’s cock beneath where his lips wrapped tightly around the shaft.

John liked blowjobs that were fast and a little rough, so Sherlock went straight to a sucking slide up and down the still-growing shaft, his hand pumping in time with the movements of his bobbing head. Sherlock could feel John’s legs twitching next to him and then a sharp spasm as John’s legs bent half off the bed.

"Wha -? I… oh, Jesus, Sherlock!" John gave a low moan, hips lifting off the mattress slightly. Sherlock sped even more, John voicing short, eager moans almost continuously. Already, Sherlock heard the edge in John’s voice that meant his orgasm was only a few strokes away.

Sherlock ‘mmm’ed low in his throat, drawing his free hand slowly up John’s thigh to cup and stroke his bollocks.   
  
“ _Fuck!_ ”

There it was.

Sherlock stopped bobbing his head but continued to pump his hand. He swallowed quickly as John spurted into his mouth, savoring the salty bitterness of John’s semen. When John’s taught body finally went limp against the bed, Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock and crawled back up the bed, emerging from underneath the warmth of the blankets.

The sun was beginning to lighten the blackness outside, lessening the absolute darkness of the bedroom just enough for Sherlock to make out the expression on John’s face. Absolutely blissed out again.

"Good morning." Sherlock pressed close to John’s side and threw one long leg across John’s stomach. John reached one hand over to stroke lightly up and down Sherlock’s bare thigh.

"That was amazing," John whispered, his voice still rough from sleep.

"Mm," Sherlock rumbled, burying his nose in the short hair at John’s temple. "I thought you might enjoy it."

"What time is it?"

 ”Just after 5.” Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to the shell of John’s ear.

 ”Then we’ve hours left before I have to leave for the clinic.”

 ”Mm?”

 ”Roll over, love; I think I owe you a blowjob.”

 ”Ohh… yes, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild angst and pining.

Sherlock could not sleep; he had been sorting through a dead teenager’s collection of comic books, sure that the answer to his death was somewhere in the jewel-bright covers and pages of the 600 collector’s editions and first run comics that the young man had guarded jealously against everyone in his life. It was the only part of his life that had not been thoroughly tossed over by the police as they tried to understand his death, and Sherlock knew comic books could have surprising information tangled up with them, thanks to the three comic book enthusiasts who had hired him in a previous case. Every comic in the dead young man’s collection, therefore, needed to be examined.

 John had been gamely helping until he began yawning hard enough to make his jaw crack. It had been close to 2am at that point, and he’d begged off sorting through any more bagged comics, preferring to head upstairs to his bed. Sherlock knew John had suffered through a particularly rough day at the clinic - apparently, stomach flu was making the rounds again - before going with Sherlock to talk to the dead boy’s family and then spending hours sorting through comics. It wasn’t surprising that John would want to escape halfway through the process, especially since he had been exhibiting all the symptoms of extreme exhaustion for hours. Sherlock didn’t mind; it was easier if he saw each issue with his own eyes, anyway.

 He’d been focused in on The Work for nearly two hours when he heard a strangled noise filtering down the stairs through the open sitting room door. He stopped, a bagged comic book in each hand but his attention no longer on finding the missing clues that would lead him unerringly to the young man’s murderer.

 Sherlock held perfectly still, head lifted from the box of comics before him, eyes focusing on the open sitting room door and the landing beyond. From where he stood, he could not see the staircase that led up to John’s bedroom, but he could picture it in his mind’s eye. He had gone up the stairs to stand on the landing outside John’s bedroom before, stealing moments to watch John sleep if the man forgot to shut his bedroom door. He knew that John would be horribly offended if he caught Sherlock watching him, but his fascination with John Watson was like an addiction, prodding at him over and over, wearing down his denials until, finally, he found himself huddling against the wall across from John’s open bedroom door.

 He would stand on the dark landing and watch the subtle rise and fall of John’s chest as he breathed in the blackness of his bedroom, listen to John’s soft dreaming murmurs, and wish that he were able to watch John so openly when the other man was awake. Unfortunately, John would get a confused, questioning expression on his face anytime he caught Sherlock staring at him for long, so it had become a necessity for Sherlock to sneak if he truly wanted to continue his ongoing study of John Watson.

 Over the past few months, he had memorized many of John’s nighttime noises, so he recognized this one instantly: dreams. Very, very bad dreams.

 Another strangled protest filtered down the stairs, and Sherlock was able to make out John’s voice, tight and panicked, speaking. “Get down! You have to… down!”

 Sherlock did not dare climb the stairs to stand on the landing outside John’s bedroom. He did not dare breach the doorway of John’s bedroom. He did not dare reach out to wake the sleeping man. Being allowed or even expected to do those things would have been transcendent for Sherlock; the permission given to be a comfort in the night when John’s memories rode him like unforgiving demons would have satisfied something deep and yearning inside of him that he had not yet been able to give a name to.

 He did not have that permission, though, and he almost certainly never would. John liked women, dated them exclusively. John would not have understood Sherlock’s desire to sit beside him in the darkened room, to rest with thigh pressed to thigh and forearm pressed to forearm in the blackness while John worked through the chemical and hormonal cocktail his nightmares unleashed within his body. He would not have understood if Sherlock slid a solid, warm arm around his waist to hold him gently, the press of one human to another a silent, supportive balm in the blackness of night and bleakness of memory. He definitely would not have understood if Sherlock pressed the briefest of kisses to his hair, lips sliding subtly over the silver hairs gracing his temple, worshiping at the brow of the only person who had ever fascinated Sherlock so completely and so continuously.

 So, Sherlock gave the only comfort he knew John would accept: he dropped the comic books on the sitting room table and stepped over to lift his violin. He began to play something soothing, languid, and soporific. He played as John cried out. He played as John woke up. He played as John’s soft, haunted sobs drifted briefly down the stairs, making Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut against his bone-deep desire to go up to the other man. He played and played until the rising sun began to filter through the sitting room windows. He played for John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. 
> 
> Based on this prompt:  
> "Sherlock going home after the wedding. Sherlock having a lethal dose (and knowing it is lethal) and using it. John arriving, after Sherlock has already used it. Them figuring out their feelings, as the drug isn’t instantaneous. Sherlock dying because of overdose and… Yeah"

It had been getting worse each week. Sherlock had never thought he was the type to fall into depression; it was a completely illogical state to be in, after all. But, somehow, the return to London and John had not been the cure-all he had expected after enduring months of physical and psychological torture. Sherlock had thought sharing 221B with John once again would soothe the blackness that had begun building in his brain. Listening to John’s footsteps in the early mornings as he made his way to the washroom, the sound of the newspaper rustling as John read, and the murmured complaints as John tried to figure out which dishes were being used in science experiments and which were safe for eating on had always soothed Sherlock before. He had been sure they would do so again.   
  
Except John had not been at 221B Baker Street when Sherlock returned home. John had moved out during Sherlock’s eighteen months away, unaware that Sherlock was trying to make the world safer for both of them by dismantling the intricate web of criminals that Jim Moriarty had put together. And, when Sherlock had returned, John had been so hurt and angry that he had attacked Sherlock.

 Sherlock didn’t blame him; he rather thought he probably deserved John’s anger. He had felt sure that he would eventually be able to talk John around again, except for Mary.

 Mary Morstan, blond and smiling and engaged to John, had been the biggest change that had taken place while Sherlock had been away. She monopolized time that John had once spent sitting in his armchair in the flat with Sherlock. She was the one who heard the rustle of John’s newspapers. She was the one who listened to him grumbling. She had usurped Sherlock’s position as constant companion.

 And then they’d married.

 Sherlock had known what was in store for him long before the day arrived. He had seen it in the increasing black moods that held him down, sometimes for days at a time. He had felt it in his growing disinterest in The Work, choosing instead to spend as much time with John as possible. He had tried to make himself invaluable in the process of planning and organizing the wedding, despite the fact that the mundane details of wedding planning were considerably less interesting to Sherlock than say the varying growth densities of mould colonies.

 The day had been beyond hellish. Watching John and Mary exchange vows had created knots in the blackness in Sherlock’s mind. He had risen above it temporarily with the excitement of solving the attempted murder of Sholto, John’s commander from his Army days, during the reception dinner . But, at the end of the day, Sherlock was still leaving the reception early and alone, his mind full of the image of John holding Mary in his arms as they swayed in slow dancing steps that Sherlock had been teaching to John just days before.

 Alone in the oppressive silence of 221B, Sherlock went straight to his hidden stash of heroin. It had been one of the first things he’d bought for himself after John had so thoroughly rejected him when he’d returned home. He’d put it away in a drawer and left it there. He’d been clean for almost six years, but, somehow, the possibility of it was comforting even if he didn’t use.

 Tonight, he needed it. He needed the relaxation, the calmness, the glorious blankness that heroin always imparted. His mind was full of horrible blackness and knots and he needed to _make it stop._

 Six years clean, but Sherlock knew his dose. He was a genius; you don’t forget things like your loading dose of opiates. If he added just a little extra to help take the edge off, it was certainly not enough to be a problem.

 He cooked the dose over a Bunsen burner at the kitchen counter, still wearing his best man’s clothes. With the syringe loaded and waiting, he slid out of his dark suit coat, cream-colored tie, and white button-up, tossing them all negligently onto a chair.

 The burn of heroin in his veins created a Pavlovian response, making Sherlock lay back on the sofa and relax before the drug had a chance to reach his brain. It wasn’t until he was settled on the sofa that he realized his mobile was chiming almost nonstop from within the pocket of his Belstaff on the back of the sofa. He sat up and dug into the coat pocket, dragging his mobile free. He had three missed calls and a whole screen of text messages. He lay back down, reading as the heroin slowly pried open the knots in his mind.

  _Sherlock, did you leave? - JW_

_Where are you? -JW_

_Are you all right? -JW_

_No one has seen you in awhile. Please, reply. -JW_

_I’m getting worried now. WHERE ARE YOU? -JW_

_Answer your bloody mobile. -JW_

_SHERLOCK ANSWER YOUR MOBILE. -JW_

_Where are you? Stop ignoring this. I’m really worried. -JW_

_Have you gone back to the flat? Do you need company? Are you ok? -JW_

_I’m coming over. You had better be okay. -JW_

 Sherlock had barely finished the last message when he heard the front door opening and feet running up the stairs to 221B. The sitting room door seemed to explode open for John, his hair ruffled from the breezy evening and his expression frantic. When he saw Sherlock on the couch, his eyes blazed with instant fury.

 ”I’ve been worried half to death and I find you having a lie down on the sofa? Why haven’t you answered my texts, you cock?” John demanded, storming up beside the sofa to glare down at Sherlock, hands perched on his hips.

 ”Just got them,” Sherlock murmured. All the knots in his mind had been undone. The blackness was fading to grey. He felt so relaxed that he could possibly sleep, and sleep had been eluding him for _months_. Why hadn’t he been using ever since he’d come back from Serbia? This was glorious.

 ”Why did you leave the reception? What happened to you?”

 ”I needed to be alone,” Sherlock said. He swallowed thickly; his mouth felt dry, but it was too much effort to get up and get water.

 John pressed his thin lips in sympathy. “Too many people?”

 ”Too much marriage,” Sherlock murmured, staring up at the ceiling above him. “Too little John.”

 ”What the hell are you saying?” John asked, a confused smile twisting his face. “You aren’t making any sense.”

 ”Why did it have to be _her?”_ Sherlock asked, not really paying attention to what he was saying. Mentally, he felt delightfully disconnected from everything… well, nearly everything. He flexed his legs; the muscles felt like they were on the verge of cramping up. Unpleasant. “You chose _her_. Why did you choose _her?”_  
  
"Wait, I thought you liked Mary."

 ”You could have had _me_ ,” Sherlock said, not paying attention to John’s words. His calves were _definitely_ cramping. He began flexing his feet up and down, trying to stretch out the ache.

 ”I… what… Sherlock?” John sounded even more confused than Sherlock felt.

 ”You’ve expressed interest in me before. I suppose I had hoped that it might still be there when I returned home…” Sherlock sighed shallowly. His chest felt heavy. Was something pressing on his chest? A slow sweep of his hands revealed that there was nothing there; he didn’t even have his shirt on. Odd, then, to feel so breathless.

 ”Sherlock, you’re acting _really_ strange. Have you been drinking?”

 ”Nope,” Sherlock said, holding one arm straight up and twisting it to reveal the tiny red puncture mark.

 John’s fury was incandescent when Sherlock was high. It burst across his eyes like fireworks and tingled on his tongue like champagne.

 ”You left my wedding to _get high?_ " John asked, his voice shaking with rage.

 ”I can’t have you, but I can have this,” Sherlock said, letting his arm drop beside him. The pressure on his chest was increasing, but he was feeling so tired that he didn’t care.

 ”What the hell are you saying?” John asked, crouching down next to Sherlock and lifting his arm to examine the injection site. The warmth of John’s hands on his arm was delightful.

 ”I’m saying that I realized something today.” Sherlock paused to pant, out of breath from a single sentence, and then continued. “I’m a genius, but it took me almost four years to see the obvious,”

 ”What’s obvious?” John asked absently, using a forefinger to push Sherlock’s eyelid up. “Jesus, your pupils are completely blown. What have you taken and how _much_ did you take?”

 ”The _obvious_ ,” Sherlock said, choosing to ignore John’s other questions, “is that I am in love with you and have been for quite awhile.”

 John reeled back, crashing into the coffee table behind him, eyes going almost comically wide. “You… but…”

 ”Yes. My timing is… terrible,” Sherlock admitted. He drew in a breath with effort, the oxygen almost blissful. It was the same feeling as when he’d been holding his breath for a long time. Had he forgotten to breathe? Dull alarm tickled through him. What were the symptoms of heroin overdose? But he could not maintain the alarm and it drifted away on waves of opiates.

 ”Yeah, it _is,_ " John almost snarled, pushing closer to the sofa again. "You bloody idiot. Are you seriously telling me that you love me? On the day I get married to someone else, _that’s_ when you decide to tell me you love me?”

 ”I’ve been told I’m selfish,” Sherlock said, his voice soft as he slid his eyes over to John. Still furious. Still beautiful.

 ”What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” John demanded, slapping both hands down on the cushion next to Sherlock’s arm in helpless frustration.

 ”What would you _like_ to say?” Sherlock asked, blinking heavily. It was a struggle to open his eyes again. He was so very relaxed. He might actually get some good rest tonight.

 John stared at Sherlock, silent except for his harsh, panting breaths. His face twisted into a grimace and he leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly on Sherlock’s bare biceps, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t think this is the right time to discuss this. You’re so high, you probably won’t remember it tomorrow.”

 ”I remember everything about you,” Sherlock admitted. It was getting harder to talk. He just wanted to sleep.

 ”All right. All right. Yes, I… goddamnit, Sherlock.” John lifted his head from Sherlock’s arm, meeting Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes. His jaw clenched and then the words burst out of him, tumbling over each other as he rushed to get them said. “Yes, I’m still interested. I’m more than interested; I’m bloody obsessed, all right? With you. Completely mad over you. As much as I want to strangle you right now, I absolutely love you, you complete tit. I never again want to experience life without you in it, all right? You are absolutely the most important person in my entire world. I love you. There.”

 ”Mm. That’s good, then. That’s…” Sherlock trailed off, a faint smile ticking up the corners of his lips before his eyes slid shut.

 ”Sherlock?” John paused, staring hard at his best friend. He was breathing shallowly and appeared to have drifted off midsentence. John huffed out a breath, reaching towards his coat pocket to grab his mobile. He intended to ring Mary and let her know that he’d be staying with Sherlock the rest of the evening - and wouldn’t _that_ be a fun conversation, explaining to his new bride that he needed to miss his own wedding night because his idiot genius best friend was high - but he left the mobile in his pocket. Sherlock was breathing _really_ shallowly. In fact, he was taking unusually long pauses between breaths. There was the faintest blue tinge to his lips.

 Alarm surged through John and he shoved forward, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist to check his pulse. Within a few slow beats of Sherlock’s heart, John was scrabbling at his pocket again, his mobile in his hand as he dialed 999. He was amazed at how calmly he was able to tell the woman on the other end of the line that he suspected his friend had overdosed and was in need of assistance. He had always been able to disconnect himself from moments of heightened tension. It served him well in combat situations and while saving Sherlock from his own stupidity in the past. It was going to serve him well now, damnit.

 After giving the important information to the emergency medical dispatcher, John switched his mobile to the speaker and set it on the coffee table behind him, leaning close to Sherlock.

 ”Sherlock? Sherlock? I need you to wake up. Sherlock.” Panic prickled at the edges of his calm disconnection and he reached out, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder firmly. “Sherlock. Open your eyes. I need you to… Sherlock? Ah, shit, no…” John called over his shoulder to the emergency medical dispatcher on the open line, “He’s not breathing. Starting artificial respiration.”

 He crawled onto the sofa, knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips. Everything was coming to him in desperate, disconnected throbs that came as slowly as the beat of blood in Sherlock’s veins.

 Throb: his mouth pressed to Sherlock’s, starting insufflations. Breath, breath, pause.

 Throb: gripping Sherlock’s wrist, struggling to feel the slow and fading beat of blood against his fingertips.

 Throb: the emergency medical dispatcher telling him the team was ten minutes out.

 Throb: his own voice, distant and begging as he searched for a pulse that wasn’t there. “Please, not now. Sherlock, don’t do this.”

 Throb: CPR, his arms aching from repeated chest compressions, his head spinning from rescue breathing.

 Throb: holding Sherlock’s hand, rubbing the cold fingers vigorously and trying to get color back into the blue-tinged fingertips.

 Throb: his forehead pressed to Sherlock’s, no longer doing CPR because…

 Throb: “I love you. Okay? I love you. If you can hear me, please, just know that I love you. I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve said it constantly. I’m saying it now, Sherlock. I love you.”

 Throb: the sitting room door opening and men pulling John back and John fighting them because it was too late, goddamnit, couldn’t they _see_ that? Couldn’t they just leave them alone?

 ”What has he taken? Sir, it would help if you could tell us what he’s taken.” The voice filtered in distantly, the emergency medical tech bending low over John where he sat on the wooden floor, pushing his face into John’s to get his attention.  

 ”Uh… opiates. He used to be addicted…” John trailed off as the tech spun away to help his partner loading Sherlock’s body onto the mobile stretcher, saying something obviously unimportant as they rushed from the flat and left John alone.

 In the silence, John could hear the soft, repetitive chirrup of an incoming call on his mobile on the coffee table beside him. It went on and on. John did not move.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate first meeting based on a prompt from Tumblr user thetwogaydetectives asking for John as a personal trainer in a gym at which Sherlock was working out.
> 
> No warnings - just fluff and a bit of smut!

Sherlock Holmes enjoyed needling his older brother, Mycroft, about his ongoing diet. For his part, Mycroft took the teasing with a sour expression and a healthy dose of tolerance. That was, of course, until Mycroft had suffered through a particularly frustrating series of diplomacy talks with the North Koreans and tried to comfort himself with a couple of slices of double chocolate fudge cake. Sherlock had walked into his office at that precise moment and raised an imperious and judgmental eyebrow.

"I see now why you’ve put on three pounds in the last month," Sherlock said.

 One thing led to another, and somehow Sherlock ended up roped into going to the gym Mycroft had a membership to. “The personal trainers are excellent,” Mycroft had said when Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at the idea of Mycroft actually purchasing a membership to a gym where he would be forced to be around actual people.

 So, two days later Sherlock was standing outside the posh steel-and-glass fronted gym at sunset, staring inside at all the very earnest and determined people working out on a multitude of machines with varying purposes. Sherlock’s eyes slid from person to person, taking in the veritable sea of Lycra and Spandex with a slowing growing expression of horror. Thankfully, he was dressed more reasonably: his least objectionable pair of sweatpants and a slightly-too-small electric blue T-shirt Mrs. Hudson, his landlady and friend, had given him as a gag gift on Christmas two years before, emblazoned with the words ‘Obey Gravity! It’s the Law!’

With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the glass double doors and stepped inside. A ponytailed brunette with a heavily lipsticked mouth smiled enthusiastically at him from behind a circular reception desk. As Sherlock approached, she gave a little bounce like a puppy hoping for pets.

 ”Welcome to Physique. We’re a members only club, so I’m afraid I can’t let you in unless you have -“

 ”My name is Sherlock Holmes. My brother, Mycroft, told me to come here,” Sherlock interrupted, his tone icy. The woman tapped a few keys on a laptop on the desk in front of her and her eyes went wide. She glanced up at him, back down at the laptop screen, and then back up at him.

 ”Of course, Mr. Holmes. You have full access to all parts of the health club. If you’d like a session with a personal trainer, I can arrange it. If you would like to visit our juice bar for fresh, organic smoothies and juices, there will be no charge. If you’d like to relax in one of our tanning beds, you -“  
  
“I think I’ve got the idea.” Sherlock was already walking past her and into the club. He had no intention of taking advantage of _any_ of the gym’s amenities. He had agreed to go to a gym at Mycroft’s urging, but he had not agreed to _work out_ at the gym.

 He leaned against an unoccupied machine, letting his eyes slide slowly across the men and women working so hard to perfect their physical shells, his lip curling in disgust. Unbelievable what some people would do to -

 His eyes widened. On the far side of the gym, a short man was lifting weights, a single long bar balanced in both his hands as he squatted and then straightened, bringing the heavily loaded bar up to his hips. He repeated the move several times before leaning down to place the weight on the ground before straightening and blowing out a breath. He glanced around, obviously considering his options, and then walked away from the weights to one of the machines nearby.

 The way he walked suggested a military past, Sherlock thought, and his blond hair was not quite military-short but it did still have the overall look. He’d been out of the military for a bit, then, but hadn’t quite gotten it completely out of his system.

 Sherlock realized he’d been drifting slowly across the gym towards the man when the object of Sherlock’s fascination glanced up, his dark blue eyes catching Sherlock’s stare. He smiled faintly, sliding off the machine he’d been working his beautifully muscled legs on. He walked over to Sherlock and held out his hand as his eyes ticked subtly up and down Sherlock’s body. He seemed to like what he was seeing, because his smile grew and he met Sherlock’s eyes boldly.

 ”I’m John. Were you wanting a personal training session?” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes in an endearing way. He was definitely a few years older than Sherlock, but the lines on his face added character to it rather than making him look old. Sherlock felt something in him going a bit wobbly at John’s smile and he fought to formulate a reply.

 ”Sherlock. I… you’re a personal trainer?” Sherlock asked, taking the offered hand to shake.

 ”Yeah, I am.” John gestured around at the weights near them. “Anything in particular you wanted to try?”

 Sherlock hesitated. He hadn’t come here planning to work out… but to walk away from a little harmless interaction with someone who was both attractive and attracted to him would be stupid.

 ”Any of it. All of it. I don’t know anything about lifting weights,” Sherlock said, tipping his head back slightly as he waited for John to mock him. But John didn’t seem concerned about Sherlock’s lack of knowledge. He just nodded, his face friendly.

 ”All right, then. This’ll be hands-on while I’m showing you correct form, all right?” John stepped over to a rack of small hand weights. Sherlock followed him over, admiring the flex of his biceps as he lifted two dumb bells from the rack.

 ”Hands-on is fine,” Sherlock admitted.

 The next hour was confusing in more ways than one. Sherlock was completely unfamiliar with the various weights that John kept presenting him with, did not know any of the correct forms for lifting, and found that he could not handle more than a few reps on each different weight set before his muscles started fatiguing. Plus, John hadn’t been kidding about being “hands on.” Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure if John was _deliberately_ letting his hands linger when he reached out to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s forearms to help him lift the dumb bells… or if John was _trying_ to send a shiver up his spine when he planted his hands on Sherlock’s hips, lightly pressing his thumbs into Sherlock’s lower back as he showed Sherlock how to do a proper squat for a dead lift… or if it was absolutely _necessary_ for John to sit next to him on the bench with his thigh pressed along the line of Sherlock’s when Sherlock did curls. Was John flirting, or just a very thorough personal trainer? The result was the same: Sherlock was panting, his breaths heavy and strained, and he couldn’t fool himself into believing that it was _entirely_ from the effort of lifting the weights.

 Sherlock needed _lots_ of correcting, too. Every time John touched him, Sherlock lost the ability to concentrate on what he was doing. This led to John having to touch him again, correcting his form. And, once more, Sherlock would lose track of what he was doing. Over the course of an hour, there were probably only a handful of minutes when John _didn’t_ have some part of his body touching some part of Sherlock’s.

 ”All right,” John said at the end of the hour. “Last thing we’ll do are triceps extensions. You’ll come lay on your back on this yoga mat over here…” Sherlock moved to follow John, eyes sliding down to take in John’s arse. He suddenly found himself blessing Lycra for the gym shorts John was wearing; loose enough to leave something to the imagination and tight enough to help Sherlock make some very informed deductions.

 He laid down on the yoga mat John indicated, hoping his loose sweatpants were preserving his dignity. He didn’t think he was likely to embarrass himself, but he couldn’t know without sitting up to look at his own groin.

 John leaned over him, putting dumb bells down on either side of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock caught the faintest whiff of fresh sweat, a woody-scented soap, and something that just smelled very male and appealing before John leaned back.

 ”Bend your knees, feet flat on the floor. Good. All right, you’ll be using your arms like fulcrum levers to lift the weights straight up and over your chest. Then you bend your elbows so the weights come down on either side of your head before bringing them straight up again. Don’t let your elbows flare out.” John was on his knees behind Sherlock’s head and Sherlock drew in a breath, catching the warm, male scent of John again. Thank God his knees were bent up. “Any time you’re ready.”

Sherlock tried to follow the instructions. John didn’t reach out to correct him, so he must have been doing it right. He tipped his head back a bit, rolling his eyes to look at John as his elbows bent, his arms tightening under the strain of lowering the dumb bells. John was watching Sherlock’s arms and at the exact moment the muscles tightened to support the weights, John’s eyes narrowed slightly and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

  _Wham!_

 The dumb bells hit the floor on either side of Sherlock’s head and John reached immediately, stopping them from toppling onto either Sherlock’s face or John’s knees.

 ”Maybe we should call it a night,” John suggested.

 ”Mm. Probably.” Sherlock slid his hands off of the dumb bells as John held on to them. Sherlock sat up, sliding a surreptitious glance down at his sweatpants. Nothing too obvious to anyone who wasn’t intimately familiar with his body. Good.

 John was returning the dumb bells to the rack, tossing quick glances back at Sherlock as he did.  “Will you be coming back again?”

 ”I was thinking I might make this a regular thing.” Sherlock watched as John turned to come back over to him. “Will you be available to train me again?”

 John hesitated, eyes searching Sherlock’s face. Finally, he smiled faintly, eyes crinkling at the corners again. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’re not encouraged to date anyone we’re training.”

 ”I… date?”

 ”If you’re interested,” John said quickly, holding both hands out, his palms extended towards Sherlock in an ‘I mean you no harm’ gesture.

 Sherlock hesitated. This was _completely_ out of character for him, and yet…

 ”What time do you usually get off of work?” he asked, allowing a small answering smile to spread across his face.

 ”I don’t have any more clients this evening; I can leave any time.”

 ”Dinner?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and suggestive as he held John’s eyes with his own.

 John’s smile promised Sherlock many, many things before the evening was over. “Starving.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure, unadulterated fluff in this little ficlet. Inspired by a prompt from Tumblr user waiting-for-garridebs.

It was a fairly typical Tuesday evening in 221B Baker Street. Having successfully pinpointed the location of a hidden camera phone on which photos of a murder victim had been stored - the final clue necessary to lead New Scotland Yard to the murderer -  Sherlock was enjoying a relaxing bath while John read a highly recommended New York Times Bestseller. Unfortunately, the novel was proving incredibly dull, especially after Sherlock had read the first four pages over John’s shoulder and told him exactly how the story would play out. When Sherlock made these predictions of novels John had started reading, John could never be sure if his flatmate was making actually deducing the ending based on clues in the text or if he’d Googled the story earlier. Either way, it was making the novel incredibly hard for John to get into.

 John was putting the kettle on to boil when he heard a strange, muted ‘squeak squeak.’ He paused, staring at the kettle for a moment, wondering if it was getting ready to break or burst into flames or something. But the kettle was behaving as it normally did. The squeaking sound was still happening in intermittent bursts, and actually, it didn’t seem to be coming from the kettle now that John really listened to it.

 John marked his place in the novel with a finger and moved into the sitting room, book dangling at his side. The squeaking noise was much quieter in there; obviously, whatever was causing it was not something located in the sitting room.

 He moved back into the kitchen, pausing next to the boiling kettle to listen. The squeaking noise came again, and he closed the novel and dropped it on the counter next to his waiting mug. He moved through the kitchen and into the hallway that led to Sherlock’s bedroom, trying to step quietly to prevent occluding the sound. The squeaking was definitely getting louder as John moved down the hall. John heard a soft splash as he crept  past the closed washroom door; Sherlock was still in the bath. That meant John could check in Sherlock’s room to see if there was anything out of place that could be making the squeaking sound. Living with Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate, you could never be sure that there wouldn’t be some strange experiment or devilish device left by a genius criminal creating strange sounds to interrupt your quiet Tuesday evening.

 He hadn’t been in Sherlock’s room many times. After all, they were _flatmates_ , not _roommates_. Still, he was familiar enough with the room to see that nothing was out of place in the tidy bedroom other than the pile of discarded clothes tossed negligently on the end of the bed.

 The squeaking noise was much louder in here, and as John turned to take in the entirety of Sherlock’s bedroom, he realized why: the door that led into the en suite washroom was open and John could see the long, pale expanse of Sherlock’s back as the other man lounged in the tub, holding a rubber ducky with one hand and squeezing it intermittently.

 John pressed his lips tightly, fighting the urge to burst into laughter. Sherlock Holmes, brilliant detective, was sitting in a warm bath with a rubber ducky.

 After a second, John realized he could hear Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbling very softly. He minced his way closer to the open washroom door, curious as to what Sherlock was saying.

 ”…it was obvious in the end. It always is, once I put together all the clues. And, now that you’ve heard all the clues, Detective Ducky, I’m sure that _you’ve_ put it all together, too. You are, after all, the most brilliant rubber duck in existence.”

John pressed a hand silently over his mouth, his breath coming in little frantic, silent gasps as he fought the urge to burst into fond laughter. Sherlock had a rubber ducky he called Detective Ducky to which he recounted his cases. It was so charming and unusual that John’s heart did a little flop in his chest. Yet another thing to add to the list of reasons he had an entirely inappropriate and completely hopeless crush on his brilliant, beautiful, unpredictable flatmate.

 John dug into his trouser pocket, pulling his mobile free and turning on the camera app as he raised the mobile. The photo captured Sherlock’s damp, dark curls; lean, pale back; and one long, lightly muscled arm holding up the rubber ducky.

 John had no intention of ever showing it to anyone; it was a private thing, a reminder for when Sherlock was being a complete and utter dickhead and John needed something to keep him from strangling the other man.

 As John silently moved from the bedroom, the low rumble of Sherlock talking to Detective Ducky faded away and all that was left was the cheerful ‘ _squeak squeak_ ’ of the rubber ducky in his brilliant flatmate’s hand.


End file.
